


your name like honey on my lips

by elisela



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Drunken Confessions, Fluff, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Softness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28010622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisela/pseuds/elisela
Summary: Derek, it seems, has passed the point of happy, talkative drunk and has fallen straight into sleepy and silent. Stiles can’t decide if that’s better or worse, and when Derek finally slides off the barstool and straight into Stiles’ arms like he belongs there, nuzzling his face into Stiles’ neck with a sigh that bleeds contentment, Stiles starts calculating the odds that he actually died earlier in the day and this is his own personal heaven.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 10
Kudos: 326





	your name like honey on my lips

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spinningincircles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinningincircles/gifts).



> Sometimes I drink wine and tell my friends to give me prompts and Lauren said “okay but like…what happens when derek gets too drunk at the bar and stiles has to drag him home…”. This is not exactly what I intended to write but apparently a desperate need for softness hits somewhere in the second glass of wine.

It’s a bit of a surprise that the bar Stiles was called to abruptly in the middle of the night wasn’t terrible. Stiles had, when he’d finished stumbling into his jeans and made it outside, assumed that any place Scott would choose to get plastered in would be run down and disgusting, lacking appeal in everything except for cheap booze. Scott’s lucky to have a friend like Stiles, honestly, someone who’s willing to drag themselves out of their warm, comfortable bed at half past one in the morning and brave the frigid streets to go pick his drunk ass up. It makes him feel better to tell himself that, to dwell on his response to this situation instead of giving in to the irritation that Scott didn’t even have the decency to tell Stiles he was going out that night. 

It was supposed to be Stiles’ night to celebrate; he’s got a brand new master’s degree in hand (okay, he’ll have it when they mail it to him in four to six weeks), he’s got two weeks to do nothing but laze around playing video games in his underwear until he starts his new job, _and_ said job will finally afford him the chance to move out of his ninth-floor walk-up and hopefully into a building where the hallways don’t smell like three week old garbage that’s been left out in the summer heat despite it being _January_.

He loves Scott. Scott is his best friend in the entire world, the person who’d packed up everything he had and left his hometown just because Stiles had admitted to being lonely in New York; Scott is the person who makes Stiles believe there’s still good in the world. Scott is—

Not at this bar.

There’s hardly anyone in the place, not that he’s surprised—it’s Tuesday, a cold front has swept the city, and anyone with an ounce of sense is home. In _bed_. He mutters a curse under his breath and steps up to the bar. “Hey man, sorry—I’m Stiles? Someone called, said I needed to come get my buddy?”

The bartender jerks a thumb towards the end of the bar, and Stiles opens his mouth, ready to ask what the hell is going on because that’s not Scott, Scott’s got adorable wavy hair that stills flops down in front of his eyes sometimes, and he’s not nearly as built as this guy is; the guy may be slumped over the bar, head burrowed in his folded arms, but he’s got more muscle on him than Stiles and Scott combined. Whoever this guy is, Stiles doesn’t know him, doesn’t know why he asked the bartender to call Stiles to pick him up or how he even has his number, because Stiles only knows one person with a body like that and there’s no way that—

“You said adorable,” he hisses as the bartender, pointing wildly in Derek’s direction, because of course it’s the guy he regularly makes a fool of himself in front of over there, the one who he’s pretty sure can’t _stand_ him even though Stiles has tried at least seventy-eight different ways to get his attention. “You said _talkative_. You said—”

He stops.

She holds up her hands and shrugs. “Look, we’re closing. If you don’t want to deal with him—”

“No, it’s fine,” he says, staring at the back of Derek’s head. He wonders how many drinks it took Derek to turn talkative; Stiles had, until this moment, seriously wondered if Derek had some sort of curse placed on him that only allotted him a few dozen words a day. He says more in ten minutes than Derek says all day, something he knows due to a combination of spending long days in the library writing his thesis and strategically choosing tables that offered him a view of the reference desk.

For easy research access, of course.

“You want me to call a cab for you two?”

He should stop staring. When he’d answered the phone—the Sheriff’s kid never, ever lets an unknown number become a missed call in the early hours of the morning—and she’d asked him to come get his adorable, talkative friend who wouldn’t shut up about him, he never expected this. “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks,” he says. He hopes Derek doesn’t live far; he’s still got a month before his first paycheck will hit his bank account and his take-out budget is going to get a serious chunk taken out of it if it turns out Derek lives out in Brooklyn or some shit.

He makes his way over until he’s on Derek’s other side and can see his face, eyes closed and resting peacefully. Stiles kicks at his foot gently; when that does nothing, and wraps his hand around Derek’s bicep—oh sweet Jesus—and shakes him a little, shoving his hands into his pockets when Derek’s eyes flutter open. “Hey, big guy,” he says, and Derek blinks up at him for a moment before smiling. Stiles draws in a breath and pastes a smile on his face because _no_ , he is not affected by this. So what if he hasn’t ever seen a smile grace Derek Hale, permanently grumpy research librarian, before? There’s no reason why such a sight should make him want to melt into the floor right there. “Need some help getting home?”

Derek, it seems, has passed the point of happy, talkative drunk and has fallen straight into sleepy and silent. Stiles can’t decide if that’s better or worse, and when Derek finally slides off the barstool and straight into Stiles’ arms like he belongs there, nuzzling his face into Stiles’ neck with a sigh that bleeds contentment, Stiles starts calculating the odds that he actually died earlier in the day and this is his own personal heaven.

Or, more likely, a dream, because even though he’s got ten fingers and the cab waiting for them outside smells like vomit and greasy pizza, Derek shrugs helplessly when Stiles asks where he lives and his license lists somewhere upstate as his address, which means that his only real choice is to take Derek home with him, back to his shoebox of an apartment that’s barely big enough for a bed and a table, where he may have just enough room to sleep on the floor but certainly doesn’t have enough extra blankets to ensure he won’t freeze to death.

So he gives his own address to the cab driver, even though it’s only six blocks away, and stays pressed too close to Derek’s side, comfortably numb over the way Derek’s hand rests against his wrist, pinky and ring finger pressed against Stiles’ pulse point as they sit in silence. There’s so much he can’t wrap his head around that he doesn’t even try, because what good would it do to ask questions when Derek’s not said a single word to him so far? It’s startlingly familiar, just a different setting, a different hour, a different look on Derek’s face when Stiles helps him out of the cab and into his building. 

By the time they’re up the stairs—a not insignificant feat—Derek is staring at him openly, mouth soft at the corners and eyes wide, fingers walking slowly up Stiles’ arm as he wedges his key into the lock and coaxes it back and forth until the deadbolt finally gives in and slides open. 

“It’s not much,” Stiles says, curling his arm back around Derek’s waist and pulling him in, “and uh, I hope you don’t mind sharing the bed, I’ve got some—well, no, I don’t have any pants for you, sorry, but I have a shirt that might fit. It gets a little cold in here.”

He digs around in his dresser, pulling out of one the long sleeved shirts he wears to bed—it’ll be tight on Derek but it’s better than nothing—and tosses it at him while he pulls his own clothes off for the second time that night and looks around for the sweatpants he’d abandoned on the floor in his haste to leave. Derek’s still sitting on the edge of the bed when he’s done, looking down at his hands, and Stiles kneels in front of him without thinking, working at the laces of Derek’s shoes until he can pull them off.

“You’d be more comfortable without these,” he says, rubbing his palm against the jeans Derek’s still wearing. “You can leave them on if you want, but—it wouldn’t bother me if you took them off. If you’re comfortable with that.” Derek nods after a moment, leans into Stiles as he strips, keeps his hand on Stiles’ arm even as they crawl into the bed. He lays closer than Stiles thought he would, knees coming to rest together as they turn on their sides.

He’s almost asleep when Derek finally says his name. The light from the street below falls across Derek’s face at an angle, casting most of his face into shadow, but Stiles can see how Derek’s eyes sweep over his face, can feel the feather-light pressure of Derek’s thumb coming to rest against the corner of his mouth. “Is this real?”

There’s a slight slur to his words, a drunken lisp, and he can’t help but smile, Derek’s thumb tracing the line of his bottom lip. “You think this is a dream?” Maybe he shouldn’t touch—Derek’s still drunk, can’t really consent to anything and has never even remotely indicated that he would be interested in being in Stiles’ bed before this, but Derek’s touching him like he _matters_ , so Stiles brings up his arm to rest around Derek’s waist and scoots a little closer.

“Yes,” Derek says quietly. “I won’t see you anymore. You’re—gone. I didn’t want you to be gone.”

“You can see me anytime you want,” Stiles says, tilting his head in, releasing a breath when Derek does the same, foreheads pressed together.

“Tomorrow?”

Stiles yawns, tugging Derek closer. “Every tomorrow,” he murmurs as he closes his eyes, and he falls asleep slowly to the sweep of Derek’s thumb across his cheek. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](https://elisela.tumblr.com/post/637188241960976384/your-name-like-honey-on-my-lips-stiles-x-derek-g) if you also want to give me prompts to write while I'm tipsy!


End file.
